


Virgin Pacific Rim Job

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five nights in the life of Billy Tallent: 1978 - 1990</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virgin Pacific Rim Job

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dayse

 

 

**1.**

1978

The van was parked outside his dad's, (a place where it would be 1959 for ever, amen) and this was it, this was fucking _it_ \- they were going on tour, and they were going to make it big. Ed Festus had said so.

Out practicing all day and Billy's fingertips were still vibrating from the wires, sensitive enough that he was using mostly the heel of his hand and his fingers below the first joint. He usually did it on the outside, but Joe's denims were too rough tonight, and he'd just shoved his hand in there knowing that he only went commando. Joe lay back, strung out on some shit that John had scored (don't ask where), and Billy'd had to scam a joint from Pipe's stash because Joe only had enough for one and he wasn't sharing, the fucker.

"Oh yeah baby, harder baby - Oh Mandy, just like that, just like...Liz......" Joe sounded like Lauren Bacall after a solid day spent fucking his throat up on their first maybe-decent batch of original stuff. He giggled at the ceiling, and brought an arm up in a languorous sweep to take another drag on his cigarette. He closed his eyes when he came, and bucked up just enough to set the van rocking gently on its shocks.

Billy pulled his hand out and wiped it on Joe's shirt and closed his own eyes and pretended he was at sea. It was all very cool. Very fucking punk and fuck you to the establishment and all who sailed in her.

**2.**

1983

Billy woke up hard but the cold, brittle light outside didn't encourage sharing so he went to the bathroom to deal with it. (One step above total obscurity still seemed to translate to a fucking mile away from separate motel rooms for some reason.) Afterward he tried to remember how long he'd lived knowing that waking up was just another way of saying hangover - thank fuck alcoholics were old people with the dt shakes and questionable hygiene. Shower, shave and hair until a Rolling Stone cover stared back at him from the mirror, and still not a fucking sound from inside the room.

He bit down on the toothbrush and leaned around the doorway; launched his damp towel across the bed. It landed on Joe's head and he pulled his hand back and raised his middle finger with a muffled "Blow me."

"S'my turn." and Joe pulled his leg back and let rip with a loud one and a satisfied sigh. Asshole. He probably wouldn't have noticed or given a shit if they'd still been sleeping in the van, but Billy was starting to buy into the capitalist pig mentality just a little - at least when he was busting his ass for no apparent benefits.

Billy sat restringing his guitar on the end of the bed until Joe woke properly. They went for breakfast. Billy ate eggs and Joe poked around at his hash browns until Billy threatened him with a fork. Joe stubbed his cigarette out in the remains and licked his teeth at the waitress when she cleared their plates and gave him a filthy glare.

**3.**

1987

It was their first paying gig in too fucking long, and afterwards he stayed out till the sun rose, and fucked Mary twice - not in the back of the van but up against a wall in the dark surrounded by high rickety columns of stacked plastic chairs. He remembers wondering why all booze, when spilled, seemed to smell like rancid cotton candy and puke.

She was wasted; not enough to have too many problems staying vertical but enough that he felt a little shitty about it afterwards when he was slightly more sober. She was smiling all the way through, as far as he could tell, so he reckoned she'd enjoyed it too. He knows he was surprised all those years later to find that he'd gotten there before Joe.

**4.**

1989

The carpet was a mottled brown buzzcut that left a rash on his knees that he couldn't help scratching at even after he'd crawled on the bed and had his turn and the lights were out and Joe was asleep on his stomach, snoring every other breath through lips pursed round the rim of an invisible beer bottle. Billy wondered how sorta making it so far with seven albums out (and yes he was fucking counting the e.p.'s) and a decent groupie following still translated to sharing rooms in crappy motels. He'd have to remember to ask Joe about that in the morning.

Joe shifted on the bed next to him, scratching at his stomach and mumbling into his pillow. He usually went out like a light, after, but Billy was finding it was taking him longer to get to sleep himself these days. He felt Joe's arm twitch, and then somehow his hand ended up half on Billy's hip. Billy shrugged, ("fuck off") and then rolled away, because he was overheating in the close room and Jesus, did Joe have to be this fucking possessive in his sleep? What with the hissy fits lately it was practically like having a fucking girlfriend, and he needed that right now like a hole in the head.

He turned onto his side, his back to Joe, and stared at the beats of light sliding in under the door, pink from the flashing vacancies sign outside. A door slammed - sounded like the next room. Yeah, Ox was acting weird too. Weirder than usual at any rate, and each time they went on stage he'd taken to slicing himself - if you looked closely at his arm, you could see the scars forming an uneven diamond pattern across his skin right through the tattoos. Too much fucking poser drama queen in there for Billy to feel much sympathy. It was getting to be real sad when Pipe became the person you needed to be able to count on, and frankly even he could see that the main reason that that was true was because Pipe didn't have a single fucking thing else in his life going for him.

Billy fell asleep wondering what it felt like to ride in a limo.

**5.**

1990

Billy got back that evening to find that Joe hadn't confined his bathroom activities to the drinking glasses of studio execs. There was a dark circle on the bedcover, on his side. And what the fuck was up with him even HAVING a side of the bed anyway? Thinking of it like *that*, with Joe, that was some seriously fucked up shit.

Joe was sitting in the bath, fully clothed, with a towel round his head like Elizabeth fucking Taylor in a soap advert and a lit cigarette dangling. His eyes were closed, and he didn't respond to anything Billy said at all, even though he was perfectly awake, if not exactly sober. The bath was half-full, and the water was still warm, and Billy KNEW that the fucker was orchestrating this for his benefit.

Two could play at this game, but frankly Billy was tired of it now, so he turned round and quietly walked out, closing both doors behind him and hauling his stuff over to the room next door. Pipe got ousted, and Billy settled down in his own bed on the other side of the room to John and closed his eyes, toeing off his boots as an afterthought. Whatever John was smoking smelled *really* fucking good, and so he held out his hands and clicked his fingers until he shared.

Sleep skidded off the rails at three a.m. when Pipe stomped back in, whining at Billy about Joe fucking Dick. "He keeps passing out and he won't fucking get out the fucking bath even though it's more fucking frigid than a nun's cunt and I'm not sitting there all night holding his fucking head up. You sort him out." The atmosphere was mutinous and John was watching both of them with wide, sly eyes. Pipe was in saggy grey boxers and a torn band tee, and he was getting into the bed with the inevitability of an avalanche, shoving Billy off the other side.

Billy didn't know what John had cut his toke with, but it was severely affecting his balance, and he staggered out the room like a slow motion replay of a footballer dodging a tackle. He was noisily sick in his toilet for a good ten minutes, until he raised his head and came face to face with Joe, head lolling on the side of the bath, eyes open but unfocussed.

Billy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You are an annoying cunt. And I need some sleep." He stood up, still weaving slightly. "Up and out, asshole." He yanked on the plug chain (and why the fuck didn't Pipe think to do *that* earlier? Retard). By the time he'd wrestled Joe to the bed, both of them were wet and shivering, and Billy was still floating somewhere far behind his own eyeballs and so getting naked together to warm up didn't seem like the worst idea in the world.

Naked turned to clumsy rubbing and Billy didn't have the coordination or the will, frankly, to stop anything when Joe grabbed his cock and started stroking roughly. He didn't even move much except to arch his back and push down into the mattress with his ass and moan a little, openmouthed, as Joe sorta slumped over him, and then shuffled down on the bed, tonguing his belly sloppily and licking the head of Billy's dick before sucking him in like a fucking groupie. His hips set up a rhythm with Joe's mouth, and he twisted up, up and into the heat and warmth and feelgood that spread through him like honey on acid until he came in a long uneven shudder and pummelled his hand so hard on the bedside table that his fingers went numb.

He went limp for a while, and Joe pushed and pulled at him with the patience and mindless determination of the functioning drunk until he was rolled over onto his stomach. His head hurt and he thought he was maybe going to throw up and he was starting to get the shakes, just a little, like his interlude of lucidity was futzing off again. It took a little while for him to connect the weird sensation at his back with Joe, and by the time he'd worked out that that _was_ Joe, _licking_ at his fucking _ass_ , there was a hard _push_ , and Jesus but he hadn't signed up for this shit.

He tried to lift himself up, roll Joe off, but he was a dead weight on Billy's back, and Christ, still trying to get _in_ and of course John would choose that moment to open the door and "Everything okay...oh." and close it again.

"Well shit, if _that_ doesn't ruin the mood." Joe wasn't moving now, just mumbling scratchily into Billy's ear and Billy got his shit together enough to get a hand behind him and flail at Joe and heave up until he was free to roll off the bed.

"What the FUCK was that? Are you fucking _insane_?" Billy picked up the nearest hard object, which happened to be Joe's boot, and launched it at him. The intent was more convincing than the action, and Joe got a hand up in time to deflect it away from his face and it spun off the mattress and landed on the floor with a thump.

Billy was breathing hard, waiting for Joe to come back at him, try and laugh it off or make some crack or just fucking _something_ , let him dare...but there was nothing, just Joe watching him tightmouthed from the bed, hair wild on the pillow and eyelids puffed and slitted like he got the morning after a real bender.

"This is it. This is. Fucking. It. I'm leaving."

Billy moved slowly round the room, picking up his stuff, gait unbalanced like he'd just stepped onto dry land after a fucking _lifetime_ at sea. He slammed the door on his way out, because he felt like it, and less than a day later he was across the border in a secondhand car with three guitars in the trunk and hoping Joe had spent the night face down in the fucking wet spot.

The next time he saw Joe, of course, all that felt something like a dream, and he could mostly ignore the way Joe looked at him sometimes. Joe didn't apologise, not in so many words, and to tell the truth, Billy had never really expected him to.

 

 

 


End file.
